Reminiscing
by BlackWingedTraveler
Summary: It's worn and shrinking, but he visits it every year. FrUK, France/Jeanne d'Arc. One-shot.


**Title: **Reminiscing

**Summary: **It's worn and shrinking, but he visits it every year. FrUK, France/Jeanne d'Arc. One-shot

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><p>Sometimes, when they're not arguing with each other, the two nations sit companionably, reminiscing about the old days. They lean on each other, barely noticing their proximity, and think back to the times when their kings were being idiotic, and their squabbles were more than just verbal. And when France goes on a long tangent about some person that no one cares to know of, someone who showed <em>l'amour<em> and who everyone should learn from, England's normally scowling face softens, just ever so slightly.

Their relationship is more unexplainable than all, and the nations know complicated relationships. Why does England, who is always arguing with him, always protesting the latest advance, always seeming to detest the French nation, bear with him? While most people like France, as he is a somewhat enjoyable person, the nakedness and the cries of love get to people after a while. England, however…

Occasionally, there is a meeting on May thirtieth. Everyone gathers, chatting, talking, enjoying themselves… Everyone but England and France. England sits, miserable, nearly-visible clouds gathering over his head. Not even America tries to approach him on that day. France talks like normal, but his smiles are just a little forced, his eyes just a little wet, and he is just a little more quiet than usual.

The meeting passes almost as normal, but with no arguments from the English nation, and no outbursts on love from the French one. Most of the nations are subdued, not knowing why they are like that, but feeling strangely unnerved. As odd as most of the nations are, a sense of normalcy is often welcomed, and this day breaks that.

When the meeting is over, both nations are quiet, leaving separately, not looking back. England heads back home, and glances at the clock. 6:14. Nodding quickly to himself, he fixes a cup of tea, and sips it quietly, almost antsy in his chair, eyes never leaving the clock. At 7:07, Arthur cleans out his now cold cup of tea, and sets off for his plane. He has somewhere to go.

One hour of sitting in a plane, staring out at the sky, knowing what will happen, for it happens every year. It is not a long drive from the airport, either, but every moment fills like a decade is slipping away, and when he arrives, it'll be far too late. Pulling up a dirt path, he parks next to a familiar-looking vehicle. Face softening slightly, Arthur steps up the familiar path, headed towards one house he knows so well.

Unlocking the door, for he has the key, the man steps inside, surveying the house. It looks exactly the same as it did, all those years ago. Francis remembers well, the damn frog. Ignoring the signs, Arthur runs his hand over the mantle, the wall, the door, remembering one of his darker moments, as a wry smile twists at his lips. His watch beeps, and he looks down. 8:31. Time to go.

Closing and locking the door behind him, the English man follows the dirt road further, stopping in front of the church. Giving a self-deprecating bow to the old structure, Arthur instead goes around it, stopping in front of the graveyard that lies in the back, where one single man is. He glances down at his watch. 8:56. Time flies, does it not? Either way, it is the time.

Stepping through the quiet graves, Arthur heads straight for an empty-looking corner, the area in it clear but for one stone, and one man. Francis. He lays sprawled upon the ground, tears dried on his cheeks, fingers still touching the gravestone, having been tracing the single word that lays upon it: Jeanne. Around him lay trays of lilies, a shovel, and some partially completed holes.

With a weary sigh, the English man takes the shovel. The lilies are planted, arranged in front of the grave in a semblance of a heart. The name is recarved, gently, as it is every year, so it does not wear away. And Arthur sets, a maudlin mood upon him, and his mouth opens, of its own accord. "I don't know if you forgive me."

His voice sounds empty in the darkening air. Looking down at his dirt covered palms, Arthur swallows, gathering his courage. The nation looks up. "I hope you have." England says, the words sounding foreign in his mouth. That's not what he's supposed to say. The man ducks his head. "I'll take care of him. Don't worry." Arthur does not notice the pair of eyes watching him, but Jeanne does, and she smiles.

Somehow, they manage to get home, a depressed Arthur and an exhausted Francis, and they sleep on the floor of her house, feeling secure in knowing that no one will interrupt them, curled up together. The sun falls, and sets, on May thirtieth.

The next day, both of the nations are late, but they are back to normal. England scowls, his eyebrows knitting together, scolding America for yet another idiotic idea. France is his usual self, perverted and always saying something about love. If England blushes more than usual, if France's eyes are brighter, if Arthur smiles a few times, and if Francis swings his arm around the English man, and is not thrown off, well, no one comments.

It is May thirty-first, after all, and it is a new day.

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><p><strong>AN: **Woah, this is from like, forever ago. XD I was going through my old fanfiction, checking which stuff was fail and should be tossed out, and what stuff I could keep working on, when I happened across this. I don't even remember writing this, which honestly puzzles me, because FrUk is actually one of my least favorite Hetalia pairings ever, so it makes me wonder what went through my mind when I wrote it. But I figure that, since it was finished, I should put it up, so here it is! Enjoy the present tense, I've never done it before!


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